Apartment 42
by drewbug
Summary: Krycek searches Mulder's apartment. Slashy tones.


Apartment 42

By Nicole Clevenger (c) 1998

Notes: Just a short little something that started out as nothing more than a personal exercise in description. It takes place shortly after the events in "Duane Berry" and "Ascension" (read: right after Scully's abduction). Warnings for language and definite slashy tones. (Sorry, kids, no sex.) Spoilers for said episodes.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Though I'd take *very* good care of that beautiful Rat if he were to show up on my doorstep. Promise.

~~~

I pick the lock as quickly as I can. No better way to call unwanted attention to yourself than being spotted squatting in the hallway of a small apartment building in the middle of the afternoon, fiddling around with the keyhole at the door of an FBI agent. Kinda hard not to look suspicious.

But I've been well-trained. At least I've got *that* going for me. Take what you can get, huh? There's a moment there where I'm not sure I'm going to find the catch for the lock, where I'm absolutely certain that any second one of the neighbors is going to throw open their door and demand an explanation. I'm wishing that things were as simple as in the movies, that I could just pull out my credit card ('Cause if this was a movie, I'd actually *have* a credit card. Maybe two.) and slide it in there to open the damn thing. And just then I find the catch, and the lock pops open with a soft *snick* sound.

I'm inside so smoothly that I could be the light from the hallway slipping into the dark room. I pull the door closed behind me, keeping the knob turned until all I have to do is release, and the bolt slides silently into the door frame. 

And then I'm surrounded by him.

I lean back against the door and close my eyes. He's here, with me. I can *feel* his presence in this room. The soft sound of his breathing, the rustle of his expensive suit as he moves toward me. The clean – but unmistakably *him* – scent of his skin. Even that coolly amused laugh coming from deep in the back of his throat. That laugh that I overheard once, coming from a stranger I never saw. That laugh that I imagine for him.

Because he never laughed around me. Hell, rumor has it that he doesn't. *Ever.* 'Course, there's a lot of rumors going around about him. Somehow I just know that that's what his laugh would sound like. 

I force my eyes open. No time, no time. Got to move quickly now, do what I came to do and get out. Get out and start running. Keep running, until I get somewhere they'll never find me. 

In other words, I'm going to be running forever.

Can't think about that. Because I have no idea where he is right now. And if he comes home and finds me here… I'm sure I'll be wishing that *they* had found me instead.

This was stupid. Really, really stupid. He's going to find me. Then he's going to kill me.

No way, can't think like that. I'm the spy, the cheat, the master thief. I can do what I came to do and get out before he comes home. Of course I can. I stole her away, didn't I? I helped get her taken away from him, from right under his Fibbie nose. This is nothing. Just a little B&E. Kid's stuff.

He's got the blinds tightly closed over all the windows, which makes the place seem even more cramped and stuffy than it is. I almost want to open them up, let the light and air in, but, of course, I don't. The dark is where I belong. Hiding in the shadows like some kind of rodent, sneaking out amongst people just long enough to take what I need to survive in the gloom. Then back to the darkness…

I shake my head, wondering where all this bad poetry is coming from. It's a job, nothing more. It can't get any deeper than that. Detachment is the key element to what I do. And I'm very good at it. 

Both the detachment, and what I do.

Okay, master thief. Better stop thinking and get to work.

There's dust on top of the TV. Not much of a surprise there – From what I've heard (and seen, during my short period of "personal experience"), he's not home too often. Not even in the state too often. And he really never struck me as the type who does much house cleaning. I've seen his half of that basement office.

The bookshelves are pretty damn dusty in their own right. Enough dust to make me sneeze when I try to check behind the hardcovers to see if anything's been stashed back against the wall. Yep, I'm just the perfect cliché comical burglar, tiptoeing around in the dark here. Might as well have dressed in all black with a little Cookie Crook face mask instead of my usual jeans and leather jacket. 

C'mon, get it together. You're supposed to be the professional, remember?

Nothing behind the books. I rub my nose roughly with the back of my hand. The names Freud and Jung catch my eye, and I take a minute to glance over the rest. Dickens and Shakespeare next to Bradbury and Poe. Things with titles hinting at psychological studies on hypnotism and near-death experiences beside a few well-worn copies of the Douglas Adams books. I can't tell what all of them are, and I don't take the time to look. Sure, you can learn a lot about somebody by the books they have, I guess. But I already know plenty about this particular somebody. More than I should, for my own peace of mind. And none of it's going to do me any good anyway. So I move on.

Hmmm… You can learn a lot about somebody by the videos they keep, too. I realize that I'm grinning like an idiot as my eyes dart across the ridiculous labels on the plastic boxes lining the bottom shelf. Dirtier Dancing. The Energetic Patient. Little Lost Hooker. Playing Doctor? Something called Red Shoe Diaries… I can't believe the amount of porn this man has in a private collection. It's ridiculous. This has to be some kind of record or something. Apparently he really *doesn't* have a life.

The TV/VCR remote control is upside down on the coffee table, like it was tossed there and forgotten. There's an empty glass beside it, and countless little overlapping rings stained into the wood. So much for coasters. An OMNI magazine, this month's issue, is the only other thing on the table. Nothing I'm looking for. 

A black leather couch, just inches behind the coffee table. I can see him, popping in one of those tapes and dropping his long-limbed frame carelessly down onto the cold leather. Watching the on-screen images distractedly as he runs through the day's work in his mind, analyzing and reanalyzing everything. He's trying to block out something, to let the cheesy sex video block everything out, but he can't make his mind stop working. That's something I noticed during that too-brief time when we were partnered. He never stops. Doesn't matter how long we'd been going or what else we were doing, he was still gnawing on whatever unsolved puzzles we'd dug up. Absolutely exhilarating, and absolutely exhausting. 

But eventually he's able to push it all away, just for a little bit. Sooner or later the mind-numbing fatigue lets him forget for a while. Maybe it's a picture, the way the girl or guy on camera turns just so, the way a mouth parts or the motion of a tongue. Or maybe it's a sound, the way someone's breath catches or a breathy moan, and he begins to get hard. He focuses on the basic sensations, ignoring everything else. Eyes on the small screen, his fingers fumble with the zipper of his jeans for just a second before it's down and he exposes his growing erection to the cool air of the room. Does he close his eyes, or keep them on whatever act is playing out on the TV? They're open, I think. At least in the beginning. He's still only half watching as he almost absently begins to stroke himself. But then he gets caught up in it, his hand moving faster now. Then he closes his eyes, fantasizing about *her* or maybe his boss, or someone I'll never meet. Maybe someone *he'll* never meet. Or someone he'll never see again. But he's pumping his cock harder and faster, his breath coming in short pants now, imagining another hand there, a mouth... Until with a sudden broken cry he comes, the illusion shattered the moment his eyes open and he finds himself alone in his dark apartment. 

My eyes open, and *I'm* the one alone in the dark apartment. And I'm also really hard myself. Way to go, dumbfuck. Nice bit of visualization there. Really productive.

Okay, no time for this. He could be back any second, and I still haven't gotten what I came for. Trouble is, it could be *anywhere.* And I can't exactly ransack the place. Nothing that will make him suspicious. I've got to be in and out without him suspecting a thing. Those are the rules.

I slip my hand under the cushions of the couch, wiggling my fingers around under there. A bunch of grime and clumps of dirt and then...

I pull the middle cushion off the couch, my heart beating just a little faster. But it's not what I'm looking for. Only a stale piece of popcorn in a dust cocoon. Hell with this... I grab the other two and lift them off the couch to lie on the hard-wood floor beneath the first. A couple of dimes, which I consider dusting off and leaving on the coffee table. (Wouldn't *that* confuse the hell out of him?) But other than that, just more of the crap that generally accumulates in the hiding place under there. In other words, nothing I want.

What if it's not even here?

That thought stops me cold for a minute. If I risked everything to come back here, to break in and chance a confrontation with him, and it's not even – 

Alright, calm down. You knew that was a possibility when you decided to do this. But you had to take the gamble. You know you did. So get off your knees, put the couch back the way you found it, and keep looking.

Besides, where else would it be? He's too paranoid to keep it at work... As well he should be. That place has been bugged and debugged more times than the Oval Office. But if it's not there, and not on him – a *very* unlikely possibility – then it's got to be here. Doesn't it?

'Course, if he gets back before I have time to search the place, it's not going to make much difference anyway...

I replace the cushions, trying to remember which one went where. If I had known it was going to matter, I would have paid more attention when I pulled them off. But I missed the faint beginnings of indentations in the leather, across all three pads, suggesting the shape of a reclining body. Just how much time *does* he spend on this couch, anyway?

I don't have time to sit here and figure this out. I make a guess and put them all back, hoping that it's in the proper order. Or that he just won't notice. Sloppy, but not much a choice.

The couch more or less intact, I move on to the desk. Only two drawers, and I have serious doubts as to whether he'd keep it in so obvious a place. But then, he doesn't really know what it is that he has, does he? 

I don't know that. He might know *exactly* what he's got his hands on. This man's a lot smarter than your average government agent. Hell, he's a lot smarter than most of the people *I* work for.

But that doesn't mean he realizes anything. Anyway, it really doesn't matter. Because I've got to search everywhere it might be. 

No more trying to second-guess him. It's only wasting time I don't have.

The desk drawers are just a mess of uncapped pens and opened bills and lonely paperclips. No personal mail, which seems a little odd to me. But then, he might keep it somewhere else. The bedroom, maybe. I'll get there soon.

I feel around under the desk, but there's nothing there. Just to make sure, though, I duck my head under for a quick glance. Nope, nothing taped to the underside. I come back up and find myself staring at the darkened computer screen. My hand reaches for the power button, but then I pull back. As unbelievably tempted as I am to look through his files – who knows how much the information I might find there would be worth, if offered to the right parties – I don't let myself do it. What I came for isn't there, and so I can't spare the time. 

Too bad, too. Because, valuable information notwithstanding, I'm also just *really* curious. 

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it wasn't too healthy for the rat hiding in the shadows, either. 

In this game, questions are never a good thing. Digging around can be very, very dangerous. Sure, you may get paid plenty for it, but you have to know when to stay silent. Keep your thoughts to yourself; don't speak unless directly spoken to. Daddy Dearest taught that painful lesson really well, didn't he? And then it was just reinforced and ingrained over and over by all the others...

Knock it the *fuck* off. 

I force myself to take a deep breath. Enough of this. Mr. Master Thief shouldn't allow himself to get distracted by a never-ending and pointless interior monologue. Focus.

There are no plants to look in or pictures to look behind. I do a quick sweep behind the fish tank and inside the food container, but I don't see anything. The kitchen is right off of the front room, so I go in there next.

And I find nothing. Not only *not* what I'm looking for, but not much of anything at all. A bunch of cupboards with only a box of that instant-meal noodle stuff or a half-eaten bag of tortilla chips, and some that are completely empty. What seems to be the silverware drawer only contains one set of everything, as if he doesn't even consider the *possibility* of ever having company to dinner. A couple of glasses in one of the higher cabinets and one in the sink; four plates, all apparently waiting to be washed. Not much to speak of in the fridge, though there is something that looks like a sixth-grade science experiment growing in there, behind the chinese cartons and the two bottles of cheap beer. I wonder why he bothers to go across the country to investigate his pet project, when he could just as well find cases in the stuff he's got living in here.

Uh-huh. Be sure to mention that to him the next time you talk to him.

Funny. Really funny...

An old beat-up toaster, a coffee machine with a layer of burnt liquid inside. The microwave looks like it might have been bought fairly recently, and it actually takes me a second to get the thing open. Ah, technology. I didn't need to bother, though, 'cause there's nothing in there either. The trash can in here has probably been emptied this morning, from the look of it. Though, if there's no food in the refrigerator, he might not have much to throw away.

Unless he really doesn't know what he has... and he casually tossed it in the garbage before emptying it. Damn, damn, damn...

I glance at my watch and see that I've already been here longer than I wanted to. And I still have the bathroom *and* the bedroom still to do... 

Got to keep searching. Look everywhere, and then, if you *still* don't find it, deal with the possibility that it's gone. Only then.

Okay. 

Sure, fake calm. As if *everything* didn't depend on this. 

Shut up, for chrissakes. This isn't helping. At all. 

Footsteps outside, in the hall. I freeze in the living room, an electric surge of panic shooting through me. Time seems to stretch, to warp itself into one long, never-to-end moment. He's here they're here I've been found this is it this is the end quick find somewhere to hide save yourself protect yourself...

And the footsteps continue on.

My breath goes out of me in a rush. I look down, realizing that I've got my gun in my hand, safety off, ready to fire. I don't even remember taking it out. Just a reflex. I flick the safety back on and replace the weapon in the waistband of my pants. The familiar sensation of cold metal against my back is reassuring, something I rarely notice anymore on a conscious level. It's just *there.*

Sometimes I wish I didn't have to live like this. But then I remember who I am, how my life is. I don't know any *other* way to live. 

More sentimental crap. Just wasting time again...

I move into the bathroom, more aware now how little time I probably have before someone finds me here. There's very little of interest in the bathroom either, but I go through it all anyway. A new tube of toothpaste, with that "Special Minty Flavor." Thrilling. A green toothbrush that looks like it's seen better days... years ago. Maybe I should buy him a new one, and send it anonymously to his office. Or, better even, I could start periodically mailing toothbrushes to random people all over D.C. Might start him off on a whole new X-File. And give me a new purpose in life.

I really need to get out of here. Out of this city. I'm totally losing it.

His medicine cabinet is incredibly empty, just like the cabinets in the kitchen. This whole place has a definite feeling of emptiness to it, really. There's a box of Band-Aids in there, and some dusty dental floss. A can of shaving cream; the razor was left on the edge of the sink. Still wet. But no medication, not even aspirin. Weird.

A bottle of shampoo and a sliver of soap in the shower. The glass door needs to be cleaned, desperately. I have a sudden urge to trace my name with a finger in the grime there. And leave it that way for him to find. A damp, dark blue towel has been tossed carelessly over the bar on the wall. The only thing in the trashcan is a couple of crumpled pieces of toilet paper, with small dots of dried blood on them. I can picture him standing in front of the mirror, fresh out of the shower and wrapped only in that towel, a sudden curse escaping when he nicks himself with the razor. His hair's still wet and plastered to his head, and he can't see himself very well in the mirror because it's all fogged over from the steam. The little window in the bathroom is probably open, but it's so small that it doesn't cool the room too well. Maybe he half-heartedly swipes at the glass with his hand, clearing a streak for a few minutes before it begins to cloud again. He rips off a square of the paper, still cursing at himself for being careless, and roughly wipes away the blood...

And I'm standing here, like an idiot, gazing at my own reflection in the glass. 

I blink and turn away. I never spend much time looking into mirrors, not if I can help it. Not that I think I'm unattractive or anything – I know I'm a pretty good-looking guy. I've had enough people tell me that throughout my life. It's just that... I don't know. I think I'm afraid of what I'll see if I look too long. Besides, I do best hiding in the darkness, as a nonentity. Having yourself reflected in a wall of glass isn't exactly the easiest way to do that.

Bedroom. Check the bedroom and get the hell out.

There's a board in the floor right outside his room that creaks when I step on it. Got to keep that in mind.

As if there's going to be sometime in my future when I'll *need* that information...

You never know, though.

Most of the room is taken up by the bed. Not that it's a *huge* bed – more like a small room. Still, it's not too bad. And all too easy to picture him lying there...

Shit. No way. No way I can even *begin* to go there. Or I'll never get this done.

I force myself away from that damn bed. And almost trip over the running shoes that are lying on the floor. Expensive-looking shoes, but worn, like he uses them a lot. I don't doubt it. An unwanted mental image of him getting out of that pool, all hard surfaces and flat planes, dripping water and wearing that little red – 

Shit, shit, shit. 

I'm more than aware of the bulge in the front of my jeans. If anyone found me here now, I'd probably be more embarrassed than worried...

No, not true. You should be very, *very* worried. Knock it the hell off, and get this done.

Lots of expensive suits in the closet, work shoes, shirts, and some truly horrid ties. I can't believe that she lets him go out in public like that...

Not that she's around to have any say anymore. I wonder if they'll ever actually return her. Or what the hell they're *doing* to her. But I didn't get paid to ask questions. What was it that smoking asshole said to me in the car? "You have no rights, only orders." Story of my life.

No cartons of momentos, nothing on that upper shelf of the closet where people usually keep boxes of garbage they can't make themselves throw out. There's a picture of a little girl on the dresser, next to the alarm clock – the only personal item I can see in here, just about. Probably his sister, I guess. The one they told me about. The one who was "taken." But no picture of his partner. Of course, they've only been together about a year now. Maybe they're not as close as people seem to think.

The small dresser drawers contain the usual stuff: socks, underwear, shorts, jeans. I dig through all of this, putting it all back when I'm done, grateful that he doesn't seem to be very organized with the contents. But I resist the impulse to actually search for that red Speedo. Yep, I'm just the model of restraint. I do find one bizarre item that really throws me, though. In the top drawer, under all the jumbled, mismatched socks, there's a delicate gold cross on a chain. It's just there, as if hidden away for safe-keeping or something. And it seems so strange to me, to find that in there. I never took him for one with much faith in things like that.

My eyes fall on the bed again. I then register what I hadn't really noticed before: the fact that it's so neatly made. Another incongruity, that, compared to the faint disorder of the rest of the house, this would be so meticulous. I picture his bed to be a mess of strewn sheets and rumpled pillows, not with these almost *military* corners. 

I remember the indentations on the couch in the living room. And realize that maybe he doesn't sleep in here at all. Though why the hell not? Why have a bed but spend every night on the couch, in front of the TV? Boredom? Insomnia? Fear of the dark? What could be keeping him up at nights?

You mean, other than the loss of his sister *and* his partner? Other than all the bogeymen he fights on a regular basis? Other than the constant feeling that any minute someone could come out of the shadows and take everything away?

Behind me, the floorboard creaks. The sound registers a mere second before that voice speaks. The words slide through the air, low and dangerous, cutting and deadly.

"Tell me where she is."

end

perfectkiss@juno.com


End file.
